Angel in the Tomb
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: In her palace deep, Lyca lay asleep. Or at least she did until she was awakened. For the sound of battle had reached her. A sound that originated from a world orbiting Epsilon Eridani...


_A/N_

_Somewhat obviously, this is based on the trailer for _Halo: Reach_. However, it's also worth mentioning that this draws heavily from the _Cortana Letters_, albiet twisting her reference to Gabriel. And as for an OC...well, in a universe of supernatural entities being universally maladictant, what with the Gravemind, the entity in _Spartan Black _and whatever demon lord may have existed in _Orion_, I was a bit short in supply for entities who _don't _want to destroy humanity. Go figure._

* * *

**Angel in the Tomb**

In her palace deep, Lyca lies asleep.

A misnomer perhaps. Her kind does not require sleep, certainly not in the same way as the mortal races of the galaxy, the decedents of those spared from the Rapture. Many souls went over the abyss that in that flash of lethal light ten times ten thousand years ago. The unwilling refused to yield to the flood of fate, refused to let the walls of their empire be broken by the storm. No sadness, no fear, no envy. They did what they had to do. And with life saved, she could return to sleep.

And then she awakens.

Because it is happening again.

A strange transmission has reached her, has breached her palace, her sanctuary. Beyond sight, beyond soul, something has disturbed her rest. Slowly, but surely, she stretches out her consciousness, seeking the source of the transmission. And with the precision and grace that only one of her kind could possess, she finds it. Still crystal clear...

"This is Fermi at RSO, unconfirmed report of an in-system slipspace rupture."

"Impossible," comes another transmission. "Check your source."

Lyca raises an eyebrow. Funny how language works, how it could be directed at more than one individual. Not that this race could speak to her of course-if they believe in-system jumps through the slipstream are impossible, then they are far away from becoming a Tier 0 civilization. No, the second transmission is directed from one member of this species to another. And before she can ponder this further, a third transmission is sent.

"Reading multiple pings below the orbital defence grid."

And another. "Oh this can't be happening."

"It's no mistake. It's them."

Lyca is fully awake now. Something is wrong. _Very _wrong. On and above a single planet orbiting the sphere of light apparently called Epsilon Eridani by this species, things are about as wrong as can be.

_This can't be right, _she thinks. _The war ended long ago. How is it that conflict still plagues the galaxy?_

She doesn't know. Maybe she slept too long. Or too deeply. She wasn't awake enough to see the visions. Raging fury across creation's entropy, demonic ships above worlds of light, reducing them to the ashes of Hell. Demons, all 33 of them, whittled down by the might of the three who saw themselves as gods, though one above all others. Their hands are everywhere. And now on this planet, one of those hands has formed a fist.

"Winter contingency has been declared, all units mobilized and ready."

"This is Sierra 320, request for combat insertion."

It appears the inhabitants of this world have fists of their own. Unfortunately, their fingers are broken instantly. And while she has fists of her own as well, Lyca can't use them. The material universe is beyond her. Such is the price of transcendence. She screams, she yells, but she can do nothing. Despite her efforts, she cannot reach the world of...Reach.

That's what it's called. A misnomer really. "Hell," "Tartarus," "Sheol..." Those are far more appropriate. Such is the way of unleashing judgement.

"What the hell was that?"

They don't know. The angels of death like keeping their enemies in suspense before smiting their foes.

"We're coming in hot, hold on!"

"We just lost our burn."

More deaths. More ghosts.

"Oh my god..."

"What the hell is happening down there?"

Black wind blows across the surface. Arrows of judgment ride on tracks of plasma.

"We've got people down here!"

Too many for the invaders. They do not share. Sharing is for children.

"We're being overrun but we'll hold out as long as we can!"

"I need you in that fight Noble One. Noble One come in. Noble One do you read me?"

"This is Sierra 259. You've got Spartans on the ground sir. We're not going anywhere."

She raises her eyebrow. More demons. Or are they angels? In the end, it doesn't matter. No one expected their arrival. No one expected this. They'll all die, one way or another. What was once their home has now become their tomb.

She wants to do something. But the Mantle was passed on long ago to a species that fell to a flood and despite her efforts, nothing can change the past.

All she can do is weep.


End file.
